


fix me up

by ghostmallows



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Addiction, Depression, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gamzee pov, Other, Pale Romance, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Second Person, gamzee is not good at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostmallows/pseuds/ghostmallows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're bad for him, you are, makin' him worry hisself so hard about you that he can't even get a motherfuckin' thing done worth note, and you wish, Messiahs, do you ever motherfucking wish you could get the strength to let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fix me up

You ain't been too keen on makin' the acquaintance of other trolls as of late, and your fuzzy thinkpan's been startin' to realize your palest of brothers might be startin' to take notice.

It don't matter what you tell him, what meaningless little lies your melted brain gets to be formulated, he still is never full on convinced you're alright. It ain't like the last time, where all the mirth got drained the motherfuck out of you and all you could see was purple, dark and deep and dripping and howling with all the blasphemous motherfuckers what got in your way, but you can feel something not right in your head, and you know your nubby diamond's been gettin' his worryin' on all over again.

You aren't meaning to get him all riled up, make him think of your worthless self as bein' so pitiful it twists up his insides 'til sleep ain't even a thing for him any longer and the area beneath his eyes goes near as black as your own shriveled-up heart got it in itself to turn, but it happens anyhow, and there ain't a thing you can do to be fixin' it aside from fixin' _yourself_ all up first, and then your sweet miracle _(whom you don't deserve; not one lick)_ will be leavin' you just like everyone else. How could he stay when even your own lusus didn't think you were worth sticking around for?

_(You don't think you could stand it were he to leave you, so you don't tell him what ferocious truths are wrigglin' around in your thinkpan 'til you can't hardly stand it no more, 'till you break and sob like a tiny grub and he has to coax you down from near tearin' out your own bloodpusher)_

It's manipulative, is what it is, and you're aware, you've been made well and truly motherfuckin' aware of how twisted up you are inside. Ain't nothin' to be pitied there, so far as you can tell, all that's to be made of you is _hatred,_ plain and simple. Your worthless self is _unworthy_ of what miracle has been bestowed upon you in the form of your most precious little moirail, and all you can be is happy he ain't up and realized it yet.

He's insisting, though, the sweet little candy red brother of yours, walls and walls of grey text buildin' up in front of your oculars while you watch with an empty sort of longing formin' in your pan. That one's sure as motherfuck got a way with words, and through it all you're sure you've been 'round him long enough to be able to tell he's worried over you, and fuck if that don't make your chest seize up all warm-like. He wants to come over, he's threatening like it'll make a solid lick of difference whether you invite him or he storms right the fuck over and bashes in your door, and you're only zoned out for a moment or so longer before you type back an affirmative, being sure to stick a classic li'l smiley face up in the purple text of yours afore you're sendin' it, so as not to be makin' him any sort of worried.

_(You know it'll be a while before he arrives, and so you fill up on sopor until all the bad feelings are chased away with the buzzing in your pan and you swear to your Messiahs you can hear your blood sing)_

Almost, almost you got to be thinking he wouldn't arrive, that he finally'd be gettin' you weren't worth all the trouble and get right the fuck out like he should, but he comes, he comes and he finds you all drugged up on the couch and calls you a worthless scum sucking son of a bitch but you think you can hear tears in his voice, little choked off things, and you pull him down close as pity starts to swell up inside you. You're bad for him, you are, makin' him worry hisself so hard about you that he can't even get a motherfuckin' thing done worth note, and you wish, _Messiahs_ , do you ever motherfucking wish you could get the strength to let go.

Instead, you hold on. You keep him close, so so motherfucking close, enough you can feel his pusher pounding against the cage of bone what it's trapped in, enough you can feel him shakin' like he'd fall to pieces without you and you know, oh motherfucking messiahs, you know you can't ever let go of him.

You shoosh him, nice and quiet, curling up around him like a shield or some such as you stroke through his hair, over his tiny li'l bonenubs what are protrudin' from his head and croon at him like he's the most precious thing you've ever seen. And he is. He is so, so precious, and how he ain't been realizin' such is way beyond you, worthless motherfuckin' excuse for a Highblood as you are _(You don't think you mind that bit so much though, cuz you don't think any true highblooded motherfucker'd be up for havin' a brother filled up with such bright bright red for a palemate)_. Your precious moirail.

You hold him close and whisper the sweetest of secrets into his ears until he quiets, snifflin' and sobbin' fading down to the gentleslow breaths of sleep, and you wonder when he'll finally grow tired of you.


End file.
